The Boy in the Well
by Urchin of the Riding Stars
Summary: AU. Kurt flees from his stalker in a dark wintry wood and comes upon a dilapidated house. Enter Blaine Anderson, an attentive and doting young man with an unsettling home and desire to protect Kurt. Upon learning of his guest's troubles, Blaine descends in a murderous fury from a grudge some fifty years old. One thing for certain: Someone will not survive tonight. A ghost story.


**_Nope, no vampires about, but I think you can discern pretty quickly there's something afoot about Blaine. This story features a morally-ambiguous version of him (to put it mildly.)_**

 ** _Warning: Dark fic. No sexual content, but there are some un-jolly shenanigans just the same. Blaine no means wants to harm Kurt, but the same is certainly_** **not _guaranteed for some other unfortunate parties._**

 ***whispers* Run like _hell_ while you can.**

* * *

-O-

 _The slithery-dee,_

 _He came out of the sea,_

 _He ate all the others_

 _But he didn't eat me…_

 _.—_ Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark

-O-

He staggered through the brush, wading through knee-high, frozen snow. But however far Kurt got the man's screaming still rang in his ears, and there was still the sound of dry leaves and branches being crushed not far away as the black silhouette ploughed after him. It sang, mocking and singsong, although taut around the edges with obvious fury:

 ** _"OLLY-OLLY-OXEN-FREE!"_**

By now the snow was glittering under the stars like a threat. It was scarcely light enough besides to see his own hand inches away from his face, and he kept smacking into trees and getting tangled in branches, liberally scratching him. Again he felt for his phone in his pockets, and again scrabbled at empty space. He'd dropped it. His one lifeline and he'd dropped it.

His ragged breathing appeared in the frosty air in puffs that swam over his face as he hurried downhill, slipping more than once and soaking himself. He forced himself up and running again, heart beating so painfully in his throat and blood pounding so prominently in his ears he wondered that they hadn't given him away yet. The moon and stars watched through the trees as he swallowed the cries for help that he knew would only kill him in the end.

 ** _"DON'T MAKE ME DRAG YOU OUT, YOU DIRTY LITTLE FAGGOT, DON'T MAKE ME COME FIND YOU_**!"

However deep he went, Dave's voice was not getting any further away, and he was clearly following the evidence Kurt could not erase in the snow drifts. He stopped cold and looked round, clutching at a searing stitch in his side. He knew immediately it was no good throwing Dave off track with a false trail—it would only slow him down.

Chest heaving, the young man went deeper, mind blank with futility and hot with terror. He choked on dry sobs, his clawing hands angry-red, aching and burning fiercely.

 ** _"I'LL KILL YOU! GONNA RIP THIS KNIFE THROUGH YOUR ASS AND FUCKING CUT YOU!"_**

Better to give up now—it was the only left to do, besides hanging himself with his coat—he had his pick of trees, none of which he could scrabble into, however—but his treacherous feet kept moving automatically as he crashed through several bare branches. _No good, no good, no good,_ was the mantra his slipping feet kept crushing through the snow.

Kurt tripped over a tree root, and his vision briefly turned white as he fell for the third time, this time feeling an awful pop in his ankle. There was a brief, horrible split second before the pain fully registered that he understood that he'd been hurt _bad_ ly before he hit the ground. Pain lanced its way up his ankle, throbbing madly. Voice catching in the lump in his throat, he lay crumpled and winded, wet hair falling messily over his face. Any moment now there would be Dave and his knife and he would tear out his throat and it might be a relief, compared to what else the man might _like_ to do. Especially because he'd shown a proclivity towards assault before.

He screwed up his face and moaned.

It also meant leaving his father alone, harming the only friends he'd ever had, possibly even the boy he crushed on, regardless of how he treated Kurt in the end. Strange how evident that was on the cusp of dying. He pressed his bitterly-cold hands against his mouth to restrain the primal shriek of despair that rattled inside his ribcage like a pinball.

After some time—he couldn't tell for how long—he rose again, dripping, glowing with cold and hurt, and hobbled forward. There was a retaliatory stab of pain in his ankle with each step, as if he were the mermaid in the original Hans Christen Anderson story.

Gritting his teeth, a fine sheet of sweat on his brow despite the extreme chill, he managed ten steps before he was forced to clutch a tree for support, every inch of him crying for release as he shakily limped away again, spotting a fallen branch. He quickly broke it into an adequate staff, limping with the birch over his shoulder as he came into a small clearing.

Dave's shouts and intermittent curses had faded somewhat, but he couldn't have got away so easily. Perhaps the darkness protected Kurt somewhat, but it wasn't yet late enough.

Kurt came to a stop before a yew tree, sagging against his support, face deathly-white. Gasping, he looked up to find a small well. The weathered, cracked stone and splintery wood looked positively ancient, but maybe it meant there were buildings somewhere not far away. And inhabitants.

Tasting his heart in his throat, Kurt staggered forward, plunging deeper into the heart of the forest. By now the branches had grown so thick and so clustered overhead he couldn't see the moon or stars anymore; he was running near-blind.

Kurt's path narrowed into a thicket-tunnel, and he forced himself to crawl through it, previously throbbing hands rapidly losing feeling in them as they slapped forward against the snow. Dave was still yelling what sounded like lewd promises in the distance, but they sounded more distant now.

Not as distant as Kurt would've preferred, however. Maybe this pass would be too big for Dave to lumber through.

The inky tunnel eventually began expanding around him, and soon Kurt was able to shakily rise, wincing as he put some pressure on his injured ankle. Chest heaving, he hurried on, falling and rising upon a gently-sloping hill, nearly rolling down upon it twice as he hauled himself up.

It was then he came upon a house. His breath hitched.

The building's silhouette was a greater darkness than the gloom surrounding it. As he slowly approached he saw that it was enormous, Neo-Victorian beauty, pillared and with pale green shingles lacquered so distinctly even in the night Kurt could see they looked like scales. The roof and dilapidated window panels were a dark slate, and upon the roof and ground floor there were iron fences. Somehow they managed to look both delicate and threatening, the intricate, spindly spirals in the metal belying the sharp arrowheads atop the fence. Kurt squinted at it, struggling to breathe.

Had the light been improved, Kurt would've been able to fully recognize the weathered loveliness and hideousness of the house. Clearly it had been elaborately designed, with two small towers constructed into its frame.

But with the panels scattered on the snow about it like missing teeth, the faded paint, the splintered wood and the fact that the distinctly-unwelcoming looking place seemed sunken into the snow, it had a foreboding feel of neglect. Had Kurt not been so frightened, he might've sensed how the whole place had a stale taste to the air.

But as it was, not even Kurt cared to appreciate aesthetics as he rushed towards the house, rushing past the old gate, which stiffly opened, creaking in his wake.

Kurt ran faster than he ever had in his life, the pain nearly unrecognizable in the face of overwhelming adrenaline. He slipped twice along the way—the stony pass was icy beneath the snow.

He had to drag himself to the door, pounding furiously. "Hello? Hello, is there anyone here? _Help!_ Help me! It's an emergency!"

Somewhere Dave bellowed his name. Tears dashing down his face, Kurt frantically hammered the door with both fists.

"Please, _please,_ please open up, he's going to kill me," he cried, hot tears splashing on the door. "He's come to murder me and I've got nowhere else to go, no phone, so _please_ —"

The dark windows suddenly lit up like jack-o-lantern eyes, painting the outside yellow. A second later Kurt yelped as the door he'd been leaning against _disappeared_ and he crash-landed on a thick plush carpet. Two hands immediately touched his shoulders and he instinctively recoiled, looking up with terrified eyes.

An olive-skinned man with curly dark dair was stooping beside him, visibly concerned. The door was shut—the stranger must've opened and closed it in a hurry. He withdrew his hands slightly, dark eyes wide.

"What happened?" He asked urgently, trying to heave Kurt to his feet. The boy hissed with pain through his teeth and the young man nearly dropped him in his haste. "Oh, oh, you're hurt—" He stared incredulously at Kurt's face, and Kurt wondered wildly if he looked as bad as he felt. "—you _really_ are hurt, you look like you got into a fight with a bear—"

"Please," Kurt whispered again, tears continuing to fall despite his shock. He couldn't stop babbling, everything that he'd kept silent for months slipping out from rapidly-crumbling defenses: "All I wanted—all I wanted was for him to _leave me alone,_ he kept torturing me every chance I got because he assaulted me, and I left and I just wanted it to be over, but he—he found me—"

"Shhh. Shhhh." The young man tentatively looped one of Kurt's arms around his shoulder. This time the latter tolerated the contact, and the stranger's eyes closed for a brief moment.

"The door is locked." He pointed toward the door with his foot. "And I have a gun." Kurt flinched, partially out of the insinuation and from guilt over the shuddery wave of relief that passed over him at the words. He normally objected gun ownership. "No one is coming to hurt you, I promise.

"It'll be fine," The young man soothed as he and Kurt shuffled forward, Kurt dazedly allowing himself to be led. "My name is Blaine. Blaine." He turned to look at Kurt. "You can explain once we get you down—easy, easy now, you look dead on your feet—" And while Kurt barely took in anything of his surroundings, he felt himself gently lowered on an impossibly-soft sofa that sank beneath him. Blaine reluctantly let him go, muttering beneath his breath as he hurried away, "Water, hot water, bandages, and ice—"

Kurt's head sagged back against the sofa, and he took in the background with a mite of curiosity. There was a small brass chandelier with glass bulb-frames that looked as if it'd been recovered from an antique shop. There were two small chintz armchairs sitting near a beautiful mantle, beneath which was a fireplace. It was surrounded by two enormous shelves filled with leather-bound books with beautiful, peeling good lettering on their spines.

There were delicate tables scattered around the room, and velvet curtains with heavily-hung tassels before the windows; he was grateful the drapes were drawn. The wallpaper was an intricate, vintage floral pattern.

In a corner there was a cabinet filled with delicate-looking teacups, and on the heavy-looking coffee table before him was an empty glass decanter and two cups. His brow furrowed as he took in the grandfather clock ticking dutifully in the corner and its swinging pendulum. There were some embroideries hanging on the wall beneath glass. Kurt vaguely remembered his grandmother's home before she passed away.

His eyes fluttered shut and open as he heard Blaine's approaching footsteps. The young man approached him with a shy smile, bearing a small tray and steaming bowl. "I like your home," Kurt couldn't help but say quietly as Blaine set the tray on the table and knelt beside him. "Very 1950's chic."

"That's what mother was going for," Blaine said lightly, sounding amused as if enjoying a private joke. He dipped a small hand towel into the hot water and wrung it out. "She always liked to keep it just so. It belonged to my grandparents before they died. Sorry—this might hurt a bit."

Blaine prized Kurt's boot and sock off, and he bit lip, suppressing a whimper. Adam gave him an apologetic smile as he examined the puffy, bruising ankle.

"I'm not a doctor, but if you can still flex it—can you flex it? Oh, good. Then it's likely a bad sprain." He wrapped the hot towel around the swelling foot and Kurt watched him, eyes filling up again. He was so thankful he couldn't speak.

"Thank you," he choked out at last. Blaine looked at him, brow furrowing.

"You're soaked. Can you take off your coat?" Kurt would've blushed, but he was as starkly white as a star. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to get your furniture wet—"

"Nonsense. I just don't want you to catch your death." Kurt shed his soaking coat in an instant, and Blaine took it away to another room.

The sound of a snap made him jump, and he turned to look at a roaring fire which had certainly _not_ been there before.

"Oh, you have an electric fire," he said as Blaine returned. Kurt thought the fireplace looked ancient, but you could make anything look like anything for the right amount of money. "That's nice—you can have one anytime you want. My dad makes my brother and I haul wood in if we want one."

Blaine looked startled, and then chuckled as he stooped beside Kurt again. "That's a relatively new addition. This house is historical, so the city of Lima can't raze it. Not that anyone would care to, anyway—this place is in the middle of nowhere."

"The middle of nowhere in the middle of nowhere," Kurt murmured, and was pleased when Blaine laughed. Blaine had a nice laugh. A little color did return to his face as the stranger poured what smelled strongly of anti-septic into another cloth, and leaned forward to wipe it on his face. It stung fiercely; he must be raked raw. "Sorry, sorry," he apologized as Kurt winced. "Have to clean these."

"Does it look bad?"

"What are you apologizing for? And yes, it really does. I'm sorry."

"I can do it if you want."

"No, pay no mind." Blaine began dabbing a salve to his cheek, cupping the other to hold Kurt's face steady. He prayed the latter didn't feel it burn.

The dark-haired man slowly withdrew, reaching for a glass on the table which was filled with something dark and pushed it into Kurt's hands. Kurt took it at once, too distracted to remember that it had been empty seconds before.

"Now, drink this. It'll warm you up." He sat beside Kurt and looked at him expectantly. "Drink this and start from the beginning. First of all: Who are you?"

Kurt's eyelashes brushed his cheekbones. He took a tentative sip of the maroon contents and coughed at the dry tang of wine, which he'd seldom tasted.

"What's happening? Who's chasing you and why?"

"My name's Kurt Hummel."

Mind racing, Kurt hesitated out of sheer habit, and began.

"I came back from school to spend winter break at my home." He said sadly, thinking of how worried his father must be at this point. He'd definitely broken curfew by now, and if Dave wouldn't kill him, Burt would.

Unless Kurt could stand to tell him the truth. But Burt might have another coronary then and there.

"It was snowing outside and so stunning…it's been a few years since I had a white Christmas, so I thought I'd go out for a walk on the nature trail a few miles away." Likely several miles away by now, and he had been hopelessly lost. He would've certainly frozen to death even if Dave never found him, had Blaine not saved him. Another rush of gratitude.

"It got darker faster than I expected." He closed his eyes, remembering the scene vividly as he'd headed towards the parking lot. "I needed my phone to light my way back...the streetlights were broken." His fingers wrung the sofa cushions in a death grip. "But there were no other cars, and no one but s-someone waiting for me."

Kurt had to take a few deep breaths, and Blaine put a consoling hand on his arm. Smiling wanly at him, Kurt went on:

"His name is Dave Karofsky." The name felt like something acidic. "It's because of him I had to change schools, he was—he—" Kurt fumbled. "In the parking lot, he asked me if I'd told anyone that he'd—" He couldn't say it. "And I said no. He said 'Good,' and then he drew a k-knife from his pocket. He said he was going to cut my tongue out for in-insurance. I ran because he was blocking my way to my car. And that's how I got here."

Blaine leaned in close and Kurt felt like something contaminated. But Blaine slipped a finger under his chin and tilted it up. Most unwillingly Kurt met his gaze. "Why did he target you?" He said, so gently it made Kurt want to cry again. "If you don't mind my asking?"

This was dangerous, because Blaine might throw him from the house any second, but Kurt owed him the truth.

"Because I'm gay." Kurt bit the inside of his mouth as Blaine stared at him. "And I was the only out kid at school, and he wouldn't let up on the bullying, until I confronted him." He shook his head, so weary he could scarcely hold it up. "I confronted him, and he wound up k-kissing me." He shrank from the memory, but it followed him. "I didn't _want_ it, I pushed him away, but he said he'd kill me if I told anyone." A tear slipped down his face, and Blaine thumbed it away, still watching him acutely.

"I didn't. And I didn't tell my dad…all of the truth, I _couldn't_ , he has a bad heart, but he tried to get Karofsky expelled. And failed. The school board took his side. So I just changed schools. Like I said, I came home for winter break." A lump rose to his throat again, threatening to burst. "I went on a walk tonight. And—"

Blaine pulled him tightly close and Kurt hugged back just as hard, burying his face against the other's boy shoulder as Blaine murmured to him. Kurt was too far away at this point to understand much of it, other than that it was kind, comforting, and beautiful.

Blaine pulled back after several long minutes, eyes over-bright. He had a tremulous smile of his own.

"You know," He turned to look at the flames, expression inscrutable. "I've never met someone whom just…came out and said that before." He gazed at Kurt again, expression wistful. "It's not something I've managed yet."

Kurt frowned, confused. "Come out and—" His eyes widened. "You…"

Blaine nodded, exhaled in a short puff. "Yes. Though I've never told my parents. It—" Now it was his turn to visibly struggle. "I'm certain you already know how hard it is."

"…you can't tell them? At all?"

"I never could. Not if I wanted to stay in this house."

Kurt's heart broke not for the first time tonight. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Blaine hesitated, and then slowly took Kurt's cold hand in his own, squeezing it. Kurt squeezed back, feeling the tips of his ears burning. He hoped Blaine thought it was from cold. "Do you know for sure?" he couldn't help but ask anxiously. Adam looked down at his lap. "That they wouldn't…accept…"

"One hundred and ten percent," Blaine said offhandedly, though there was a slight tremor at the end. "My parents have made it perfectly clear to me what they think of homosexuals."

"What's that?"

"That they should be gassed."

Profoundly disturbed, Kurt allowed his head to fall against Blaine's arm—under any other circumstance he would not be so forthwith coming, but he was so vulnerable at the moment he couldn't help it. "I'm sorry again."

"You really don't need to apologize so much, sweetheart."

"Are they…are they here tonight?"

Blaine looked at the writhing flames again, back at Kurt's head pressed against his arm. "No. For better or for worse, it's just you and I. They're away…quite often." He snorted near-inaudibly. "And I'm afraid they took the car with them."

"When will they be back?" Kurt asked hesitantly. "And do you have any brothers or sisters?"

Something in Blaine's eyes flickered. "No siblings. My parents are actually…out of the country right now." He grinned weakly. "They're on their own winter vacation, and I'm…I'm on mine. It's peaceful enough here and I can do all the reading I like, but it's felt like a very, very, very long holiday, mind you."

"…I'm…"

Blaine poked Kurt playfully on the nose. "I'm going to start charging you money every time you apologize. But don't worry; even if they're not here, I have enough food to last us through a nuclear holocaust _and_ life in a post-apocalyptic society."

That wasn't very reassuring to Kurt. The sentiment must've registered on his face, because Blaine added, "You don't have to worry about anyone tossing you out. They haven't been back for ages, and even if they were headed our way, the snow would keep them from coming. You're right; I haven't seen so much in years."

Suddenly Kurt remembered his own situation, and felt remarkably stupid for having briefly forgotten it. But he'd been so excited to meet another (sane) queer person, and had felt genuine pain for Blaine's situation. "Do you have a phone? I need…"

He was faced with the awful truth; Karofsky couldn't be allowed to threaten anyone else and he'd have to speak up. "I need to call the police. Or at the very least my dad, and let him know I'm okay."

Blaine's face fell a little at that.

"I'm afraid…we do not. Have a telephone, I mean."

Kurt's mind wiped itself clean with a blinding-white hysteria.

"How do you…" he began, and the concept was so utterly alien to him he didn't know what to say. "Your parents left you here alone without a _phone?_ Not even a cell phone?"

"…I don't have a…cell phone." Blaine faltered. "We _did_ have a phone once, but it was disconnected. And no one ever really bothered to replace it."

"But you have wii-fi," Kurt heard himself say feebly. "And I can still send a message to the authorities via email—"

"I'm afraid not. I don't have any of these things."

This was so utterly unbelievable and _ghastly_ Kurt didn't _want_ to believe him, but as Blaine steadily held his gaze and looked so genuinely apologetic, he understood with no small amount of dread that Blaine was telling the truth. He inhaled sharply, but the air didn't seem to reach his lungs…

"Kurt? Kurt, _breathe."_

Blaine put a steadying hand on Kurt's shoulder as the smaller boy's chest started rapidly heaving up and down, spots looming in front of his vision. "Look at me."

Horrified, he just barely managed to obey, and Blaine shushed him. "Hold your breath. Let it out. Hold—I know, I know, it's hard, but it will be okay, hold, that's good, hold, and slowly release. Very good. Another. And again. Remember, slow, deep breaths. And a bit deeper than that, from your diaphragm. That's good. You've done a _fantastic_ job tonight, Kurt. Call it intuition, but I suspect anyone else in your situation would be dead by now. There we go. Have a bit more wine."

Unsteadily Kurt obeyed again, profoundly relieved that someone else was more or less in charge for a change because he was on the verge of falling to pieces. He took a small sip of wine, and then another, savoring the warm bloom in the pit of his stomach and the feeling of Blaine's hand stroking up and down his back. "There really isn't…you really don't have wii-fii at all?"

Blaine hesitated again, and then drew a wet strand of Kurt's hair back. "No."

"…any neighbors nearby whom do?"

"I'm afraid not, Kurt. This house was built by my grandfather to be a summer home far, far away from his business partners at the logging firm he owned in Lima. Otherwise they were forever calling him for help and advice even when he was on vacation…I think that's why my grandmother disconnected the phone to begin with. No one else has bothered building out here since, and believe you me, I've wandered the area _innumerable_ times."

He got up and went to look out the window. Kurt wobbled as he stood again in alarm.

"What are you doing? Close them! He might see you!"

"Not in this snow, he won't," retorted Blaine as he pulled back the drape a bit more so that Kurt could see. The younger gawked, and wondered faintly if what he saw now was proof of the existence of an all-powerful, omniscient deity. Although whether or not said deity loved or hated him tonight remained yet to be seen.

Enormous, fat snowflakes, the kind that looked like they belonged in a snow globe, were spinning from the heavens in droves. The wind was rising, whistling, and while Kurt's spirits lifted slightly with the knowledge that an incoming blizzard _might_ deter Karofsky from pursuing him, it would also strand Kurt here.

For who knew how long.

He swayed. He was in the middle of the wilderness, with no phone, no internet, no neighbors, his car miles away and concealed near a forest no one was likely to visit anytime soon. Not in this weather. Only Blaine's soothing admonitions that he remember to breathe kept him from another full-scale panic attack. How many could he have in one night?

He closed his eyes, the full implications washing over him. He hadn't told _anyone_ where he had gone this evening. Karofsky certainly wouldn't divulge that Kurt was missing because he'd tried to disembowel him. His mind spun with dread; Finn would call the Glee cavalry, that was certain, but again, Kurt had told no one he was, and certainly no one knew he was a tremendous distance away now.

Even _he_ didn't know where he was.

And his swans…they'd been at the mall together just a few hours ago, laughing and catching up in the food court, tossing fries and blowing straw wrappers at each other. All they'd know was that he'd vanished off the face of the earth. Possibly for days, if what the morning's forecast said was true.

"Where's my coat? I should go, while I have the chance." he said faintly, opening his eyes again. "I…I have to make my way back, before it gets too bad…follow the tracks I left before they disappear tonight."

"Don't be ridiculous," Blaine said at once, letting the curtain fall again. "And sit back _down_ , Kurt. You can barely stand."

"I managed before."

"Barely! It's a wonder you escaped at all from that menace!"

"…do you have a snow-blower? I'd accept a dog sled team at this point."

Blaine's pitying eyes told him before he'd finished speaking that it was no use. "It's already looking terrible out, and I'm not about to let you go into a storm hurt and with a maniac out for your blood." He shook his head in a firm _no_. "I'm sorry, Kurt."

Kurt knew Blaine was right, but that didn't stop him from nearly toppling to his ground like some stupid Victorian woman with the vapors and why did he feel so _fucking_ fragile tonight when he'd made it a point for so long to be strong? Even when he'd been physically sick in the mornings with fear before school, he'd hid it. Now he couldn't stop feeling as weak as if there'd never be anything again.

The back of his knees hit the couch and he fell back upon it, hands gripping his hair. Temporary confinement didn't seem like such a bad trade-off for not being killed, but _snowbound._ He was snowbound, for an entire night—possibly many. Though he understood Karofsky's insanity was not the least bit his fault, there was a hot rush of guilt and panic as he imagined what Burt would do when he never came home—what his heart would do.

Christmas was in three days, and this was the first he would spend with a brother. Would've. His mind swiftly attacked the thought; after all, he might be home as early as tomorrow.

But he knew it was very possible that he wouldn't survive in any case. Not if Dave found them.

A second later Blaine was standing in front of him again, thumbing away the fresh wave of tears. "Whatever it might mean from someone you've never met, I won't let him in, and I certainly won't allow him to harm you. I promise. Oh…please don't cry. I'll protect you, I promise."

Blaine cradled him and allowed Kurt to sob heartily into his shoulder. He rocked back and forth, murmuring comforting nonsense again. It was well Kurt couldn't see the large, dazzling smile slowly curling on Blaine's face, eyes bright with near-manic ecstasy.

-O-


End file.
